


An Evening At Mad Max's

by silveradept



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6692908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveradept/pseuds/silveradept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Furiosa steps into a bar to try and relax and is entranced by the bartender, who seems to be carefully avoiding any sort of speech altogether.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Evening At Mad Max's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ardentaislinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentaislinn/gifts).



It was an out of the way bar. Not so far out of the way as to have to worry about getting jumped or drugged, but far enough away that she could possibly catch some sleep nearby and to have a drink while she waited for the fury to die down and for the bounty hunters to lose interest. It had an unassuming name - Mad Max's - and on first glance, it looked clean, the top shelf had actual top shelf material, and the people inside looked relaxed enough that there wouldn't be guns fired the minute someone got pissed.

Imperator Furiosa, Right Hand of Immortan Joe, driver of the War Rig. All titles she had earned playing that alternate reality game, the one that put everyone in a wasteland and told them to fight. She had done that, and after ascending to the nearly godlike power that came with her skills, she was done. Employed by the company itself, she had risen there, too, until she had seen the plans to offshore the money and implant a virus that would steal all the data it could get its hands on and hold it for ransom. A worldwide crisis designed to line the pockets of people who had already made billions.

She couldn't steal or stop the plans. But she could steal the program, right before it was ready for implementation. So she had, taking all the copies of the program euphemistically referred to as the Wife. Thus, her newest title, liberator of the Wives, which made her a hero in the digital underground and a target of the company and the government that was interested in retrieving the Wives for their own purposes. She'd been running from them for a couple weeks now, and considered herself lucky that all that had happened to her to this point were vague threats and a police visit.

She tried not to look nervous as she sat down at the bar, pulling over a list of the specials and discounts for the day. The bartender looked at her hands and raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything. Most people had some sort of reaction to seeing her, with one flesh hand and one made of plastic. She'd lost it as a teenager in an dumb stunt, trying to get under a car so that they could take it apart and move it into the school, only for all the other people to drop it when they'd first heard the sirens. The doctors had said she would probably never be able to use it again, but a little bit of time at a public library had recently produced a 3-D printed prosthetic that had restored a lot of function to her body.

Certainly enough for a shot, anyway. She signaled the barkeeper, whose name was, ironically enough, Max, and ordered rum. She threw back the first shot, barely tasting it, and slapped the glass back in the bar, feeling much better as the alcohol provided warmth, comfort, and a little calming of her nerves. For the first time in a long time, Furiosa relaxed.

The barkeeper offered the bottle to her, having not had enough time to put it back, and, at her nod, poured her a second shot. That one felt just as good as the first, and Furiosa began to feel the return of the confidence that had gotten her this far. She was impressed that the bartender hasn't said anything to her at this point - she had hoped this place would be discreet, but most bartenders wanted to know something about you by this point. Maybe he couldn't talk? She laughed at the idea.

"A mute bartender serving a woman with a plastic arm. What a story," she said. He shook his head at her, as if to say she was wrong, but didn't actually speak to her, turning to the taps to fill up a pair of pitchers that had been brought back by a server. She watched the pitchers and server saunter over to a table that looked like it had a vigorous game of cards going, deftly depositing one pitcher on each side of the table, and avoiding the hands and leers of the players.

"How much?" she said, pointing her thumb at the players. He came over, flipped the menu, and tapped the price of the pitcher of the beer he had drawn.

"The game," she snapped at him, realizing afterward the alcohol was affecting her attitude more than she had thought. The last thing she needed was for the bartender to throw her out, or worse, call the police.

Max shook his head at her again. "Cheaters," he said, revealing an antipodean accent.

It was only one word, but hearing it sent lightning racing through Furiosa's blood. A voice like his should be put to use somewhere, instead of hiding in a bar. She hadn't seen whether or not the bar had an open mic night, but if she ever got to stop running and settle down again, she planned to take him to her favorite hangout.

Furiosa ordered another shot, and one more for Max to enjoy. He shook his head again, pointing to his name tag as his way of telling her he couldn't drink on the job. So she took the shot for him.

"Why don't you talk more? You have a lovely voice," she said, hoping the alcohol would keep her uninhibited enough to get to the bottom of this mysterious bartender, but not so much that she would slur her speech or embarrass herself in front of him.

Max favored her with a look that was probably supposed to curl the wallpaper, but all it did for her was curl her toes. "Magic," he said, and then turned back to the taps.

It was probably the alcohol talking, but Furiosa fought back the urge to lean across the counter and kiss Max. He was certainly right about having magic in his voice. She sighed a sigh of peace, right before her mind kicked back hard against the idea of letting her guard down. Magic didn't exist, not like that. She must be more drunk than she thought. She was in no condition to make any decisions about anything. And yet, there was nothing she wanted to do more than just sit here and hope that she could hear him talk all night.

A light hand on her shoulder woke her. She sat upright in somewhere that looked nothing like the bar, completely panicked. Before she screamed, the bartender put his hands up and backed away. "You fell asleep after the first shot," he told her. "And then woke up enough to tell me where you were staying before you staggered into the back room here and feel asleep again on the couch. I called you a cab. It's here."

She tried to get up and wobbled severely, grabbing at whatever looked solid to try and stop the room from spinning. He steadied her when she grabbed him, then offered her a shoulder to hold on to while they shuffled, very slowly, out of the bar and to the curb, where a yellow taxi was idling.

"Thanks," she said, and promptly threw up on his shoes.

"Let's get you home, Imperator," he said, with more amusement in his voice than she would have thought a man that had just been thrown up on could muster. "Maybe when you're sober, you can tell me more about how much you love my voice."

So he had heard her say that, at least, before she had fallen asleep. As first dates went, she thought to herself as he poured her into the back of the taxi, this one wasn't half bad. Certainly better than some of the people she had dated in her life. Maybe tomorrow she could talk to him while sober. And maybe, she could tell him her offline name.

Max watched the cab go. He couldn't believe that he had just served Imperator Furiosa, the legendary hacker. He admitted that he had always assumed that Furiosa was a guy, based on her username, instead of a beautiful woman with an awesome prosthetic. He hoped that she would come back to the bar tomorrow - sober, this time - so that she could tell him more about what happened. Maybe even on a real date, somewhere other than the bar.


End file.
